Chapter 8
The first thing I’m aware of when consciousness creeps upon me is pain. Pain in my skull, pain in my gut, pain in my throat. Then the nausea turns my stomach, followed by the distinct sense of the room spinning around me. But…what room? Where am I?
I pry my eyes open, seeing only a hazy blur at first. Then a ceiling forms over my head—dark, save for the shard of pale illumination that cuts across it. I drag my gaze to the window and find the faintest glow of predawn light. I recognize the silhouette of the building that makes up half the view. This must be my bedroom.
Fire sears my throat. I’ve never been so parched. An inch at a time, I pull myself to sitting, and my vision spins ten times faster. I wince against the jab of pain that erupts in my temple and blindly reach for my nightstand. My fingers brush the curve of a glass. I secure my hand around it and bring the refreshing liquid to my lips. Too soon, my water is gone.
I cast my gaze around the room for the pitcher, unable to remember where it is. I wasn’t in my bedroom for long before dinner, so I’m not too acquainted with its layout. My eyes snag on the orange glow burning in the small stove across the room. So that’s why I’m so unbearably hot.
I reach for my chemise, determined to remove a layer…but my fingertips meet only skin. Alarmed, I pull my covers away and my bare breasts greet me. I frown. It’s not like me to sleep in the nude. I tend to prefer the comfort of at least one layer. When I’m not sweating in a stiflingly hot room, that is. I glance back at the stove, willing my predicament to make a modicum of sense.
That’s when I see the wingback chair angled toward the stove.
And the silhouette of the male figure that slumbers in it.
Pulling my blankets over my chest, I erupt with a shriek. One that dies in a raspy croak but startles the sleeping man awake. He leaps from the chair and whirls to face me. Through the scarce illumination and my still-swimming vision, I make out pointed ears, mussed hair, and a bare expanse of muscled chest.
My own nakedness takes on new meaning.
“No!” I shout.
“Weenie,” he hisses, “quiet down. You’ll wake the whole inn.”
Oh God. That voice. I know that voice. And as my eyes adjust more and more to the light, I can make out his face too. Even without my spectacles, I recognize those eyes, those lips.
“No!” I repeat, even louder this time. I pull my blanket up to my chin. “No, no, no. Don’t tell me…”
He gives me a withering look. “Is your imagination running wild?”
A surge of memories spills into my awareness. I recall standing on a chair, spouting ridiculous poetry. The insults I exchanged with William. The bold confidence that spurred me on.
Cloud Dive, you traitor! It didn’t make me brilliant. It didn’t give me any genius ideas, only the opposite. And now…
“The bet,” I say under my breath.
“Ah, the mortification sets in.” Wicked mirth laces his voice.
“What did you do to me, William? This…this isn’t how we were supposed to?—”
“I didn’t do anything that you’re imagining, Ed.”
“Then why are you shirtless?”
“You threw up on me.”
“Then why am I shirtless?”
“Why the fuck do you think? You threw up on yourself too.” Shaking his head, he hastens over to a clothesline strung between the stove and the wardrobe. Two articles of clothing hang from it. He snatches down the larger one and whirls back to face me. “I barely touched you. My worst offense was loosening your corset so you could remove it yourself. Then I spent the next half hour scrubbing vomit from your blouse. I slept in the chair to ensure you didn’t hurl again and choke to death on your stomach’s contents.”
I blink at him. He did all that? For me? Suspicion dampens my surprise. Why was he in my bedroom in the first place?
He heads for the door, his aggravation painted in every long stride. “You’re welcome.”
“Wait!”
He halts, his fingers frozen on the handle.
I swallow the renewed dryness in my throat. “You mean…we really didn’t…”
He tips back his head with a long-suffering sigh, then slowly faces me once more. His eyes are narrowed, his lips curled in a cruel smirk. He glares down at me as he approaches the bed like a predator cornering his prey.
My senses are all mixed up because a strange thrill flutters through me.
He stops at the edge of my bed, plants one hand on the mattress, and leans down, giving me a much closer look at the firm musculature of his chest, the hollows of his collarbones, the length of his neck. His eyes lock on mine, and I shrink back, pinning my blankets more firmly to my chest. Still, the thrill remains, my heart thudding as I wait for whatever wicked thing he’s about to do.
“Oh, Weenie,” he says, voice so soft and deep it makes me shudder, “if we’d been together last night in the way you’re imagining, we’d have done more than remove our tops, and I would be in bed beside you, not in a chair. You wouldn’t have to ask what we’d done because every inch of your body would remember. You’d still be quaking from the pleasure I gave you. You’d be slick both from our expenditure and your want for more.”
A breath leaves my parted lips and I find myself swaying, my grip on my blankets slackening.
He leans ever closer, one knee on my bed now. His free hand inches toward me, then softly lands on the top edge of the blanket I continue to clutch. One I’m growing dangerously close to relinquishing.
“But I don’t bed drunk idiots, unlike some people.” His expression turns back to annoyance. He gives my blanket a firm tug, and my weakening grip gives way. “That’s mine.”
Belatedly, I realize my chest is still covered in my sheet, and what I thought was my blanket was his waistcoat.
My cheeks blaze with my humiliation. Why was I snuggling with his waistcoat?
He doesn’t look back at me as he sweeps out of my room, his shirt and waistcoat in hand, but my gaze certainly lingers on his wide bare back before my door slams shut.
I’m left blinking in his wake, wondering what the hell almost came over me when he was on my bed. I fall back on my pillows, my mortification growing tenfold as more memories from last night take shape in my mind. Shoving my face into my pillow, I mutter a wail, wishing there was some fae magic that could turn back time and let me erase the last several hours of my life.
Later that afternoon,we board a train to our next destination. Thankfully, my nausea has subsided and I was able to sleep until eleven-thirty. Which was thirty minutes past when we were supposed to leave for the station. I’ve also succeeded at avoiding William most of today. Even now as I settle into my train compartment, I’m awarded further respite, for William and Monty are in the next compartment over. With just me and Daphne, there’s ample space to laze about on the plush seats, each bench long enough to fit four passengers and upholstered in an indigo-and-silver brocade so fine I could almost convince myself I’m in some wealthy widow’s parlor. The walls are of rich oak and the windows are adorned in silk curtains to match the seats, drawn open to a view of the platform. The bustle of the station has died down, which tells me the train will soon depart.
Just when I’m about to abandon all sense of propriety and slouch over the length of my seat, our compartment door slides open. I stiffen, expecting William has come to bother us from next door…only it’s neither of my male traveling companions.
It’s Jolene.
“I’m so glad I was able to procure a ticket in time,” she says, catching her breath as she drops herself into the seat across from me, beside Daphne. The pine marten, not wanting to share her seat, leaps into the luggage rack overhead. She casts Jolene an irritated glance—one the woman is fully oblivious to—before curling up in a furry ball.
“I didn’t know you were coming with us.” I resist the urge to more bluntly ask why she’s here. My mind conjures images of her hanging off William’s arm last night. Did they become…intimately acquainted? Just because he awoke in my bedroom doesn’t mean he didn’t have time for certain activities before he got there. I’m still not sure how my evening concluded or how William ended up in my room. Not all memories have returned to me. Still, I’m not unhappy to see Jolene.
“Oh, I didn’t know either until an hour ago,” she says. “But I was able to secure leave from my duties at the modiste for a few days, so I figured I might as well join you for your next signing. Mr. Phillips already said it’s fine, as long as I room with you and pay for my train ticket, drinks, and meals. I can’t wait to have you sign my copy of The Governess and the Fae.”
Bless her heart, she knows her way into my good graces. I reach into my carpet bag on the seat beside me, extracting my pen and ink. “I could sign it for you now?—”
“No,” she blurts out. She recovers from her outburst with a smile. “No need. I want to have it signed at the event. Otherwise, what reason do I have to follow you around? Besides, I haven’t purchased Mr. Haywood’s poetry book either.”
She purses her lips but it doesn’t hide her coy smile. It’s not so much me she’s here for but William. Some smug part of me is gratified that she still refers to him by his surname, at least. But all arrogance drains as I acknowledge what a pretty girl she is. She’s dressed in a pale blue skirt and a white blouse with lace gloves adorning her hands. Her golden hair is neatly curled in an updo beneath a dainty hat. She looks so prim and proper without the bright cheeks and loose messy hair from last night.
Heavens, what did I look like last night? The countless minutes it took me to brush through my hair this morning wasn’t promising. At least I managed to clean up well enough, even in my rush out the door. I opted for a low chignon, so as not to aggravate the pounding headache that has come and gone throughout the day, as well as an ensemble I can get away with wearing without a corset. It’s a tartan skirt and matching jacket, the bodice stiff enough to give shape without more structured undergarments, yet roomy enough to allow me to breathe.
The train rolls into motion, slowly at first as it leaves the platform, then gaining speed as it moves along the outskirts of Floating Hope.
Jolene’s sigh draws my attention back to her. “I wish I’d have gotten to know Mr. Haywood better last night,” she says, a wistful lilt to her words.
“Oh?” I try not to appear too interested as I extract my notebook from my bag. I already have my pen and ink out, so I might as well jot down some story ideas if inspiration strikes me. “Did you not grow as acquainted as you’d hoped?”
Her lips pull into a pout. “Not at all. Well, he did tell me about June.”
“June?”
“The great love of his life whom he gave his heart to but lost. She’s who all his poems are about. At least, that’s everyone’s theory. He didn’t exactly confirm it, but he shared a story about the heartache that plagues him to this day.” She presses a palm to her chest, a dreamy look on her face. “That felt more intimate than a single night of physical passion could.”
A twinge of discomfort pinches my chest. I don’t know anything about this great love of William’s life. But why should I? It’s not like we’re friends. We’re barely acquaintances.
“Still,” she says, and the wistfulness leaves her tone, “I would have taken passion, had he offered it. I thought for sure he’d choose me to fulfill the bet with.”
I keep my voice nonchalant as I ask, “Did he fulfill the bet with anyone?”
“Not that I know of. By the time he ran after you, it was already a quarter to midnight.”
My notebook tumbles from my hands to my lap. I smooth it out over my skirt and pretend I dropped it on purpose. “What do you mean he ran after me?”
“When that lecherous lion tried to walk you back to your room. Don’t tell me you were too drunk to remember anything from last night. You seemed so clear of mind.”
I frown, vague snatches of memory fighting to become sharper.
“Whatever the case,” Jolene says, “Mr. Haywood didn’t return after he left to find you, but a fae male slunk into the dining room looking scared out of his wits. By then, Mr. Phillips had come in from outside. Arwen and I apprised him of the situation. He halted the lion before he could leave and told him he needed to have a chat with him in the alley. When he returned, his knuckles were wrapped in his cravat.”
My eyes go wide. Is she suggesting Monty scuffled with a male who’d tried to take advantage of me?
“Don’t give Monty all the credit,” Daphne says from the luggage rack. “I bit the bastard’s ankles.” She sounds way too pleased about that.
But talk of Monty sharpens something in my mind. I remember! He rescued me. He…he…
No. It wasn’t Monty who came to my rescue.
It was William.
More and more memories unfold until I’m mortified all over again. William lifting me in his arms. Me shoving my room key against his cheek. Him helping me drink from a glass of water. That’s not all. Conversations I’d be better off forgetting echo in my mind.
I don’t have a spectacular sex life.
I’m a fraud.
I’m faking it.
No, no, no. For the love of all things. How could I have said that to him? Now he knows my secret.
A final memory slides into place.
I’m a fraud too, Edwina.
William’s use of my full name is more shocking than his words, for I don’t understand what he could have meant. Is he only pretending to be a complete and utter rake? Or is there something else he’s hiding?
“I admire you, Miss Danforth.”
I shake my head to clear it and meet Jolene’s eyes. “Me?”
“You’re so worldly and experienced. The way you express your sexual freedoms without a care for what society thinks is truly admirable. I would never be bold enough to make such a bet with Mr. Haywood. You must be so confident you’ll win.”
I force a grin that hopefully hides my guilt. I’m not ready to come clean and share what I unwittingly divulged to William. Yet her words manage to inflate my pride. I like how she sees me. If only I could live up to her expectations.
And yet…
Maybe it’s not too late to become the woman she thinks I am. Maybe there’s still time for me to live as my heroines do. I may not have the desire for a whirlwind romance, but I could experience the mind-blowing lovemaking part, couldn’t I?
My heart sinks before I summon a flicker of true excitement.
Love, courtship, and physical intimacy have always been more interesting on the page than in reality. In life, my suitors always seem to disappoint, either with their unromantic personalities or their views that a woman’s career is merely a fancy and must be relinquished after marriage. I’ve disappointed them too, in how I put my career above all else, regardless of how little it pays, or how adamant I am that I won’t marry and become a traditional wife. Even the relationships I’ve engaged in for the sake of pleasure alone have disappointed me. Sex is nothing like it is in romantic fiction. Kisses are wet and forceful. Intercourse is just a too-heavy body crushing mine, a man grunting and thrusting and asking me if it feels good without any interest in knowing my honest answer.
“It’s a shame that lion fae was such a poor prospect,” Jolene says. “You could have had fun with him, had he been a decent male. You’ve never been with a fae male before, have you?”
I stammer to answer, unsure if I’m about to get caught in my lie.
“No, you couldn’t have,” Jolene says, not unkindly. “There were a lot of inaccuracies in The Governess and the Fae, but I can’t blame you for that. You hadn’t been to Faerwyvae yet. Now that you have, your next books will be that much better. Just think how incredible your sex scenes will be after all the research you’re about to do!”
I straighten in my seat. “Research?”
“The bet. You’ll have a plethora of romantic experience between now and the end of your book tour. It won’t even matter if you lose to William. You’ll have gained so much.” She begins to fan her face. “I’m getting flushed just thinking about the scenes you’ll write next.”
I blink at her. Finally, the excitement I couldn’t summon before settles over me, lifting my heart and the corners of my lips. Every part of me feels brighter and more buoyant.
“I can use the bet as writing research,” I say, my words wrapped in wonder. “You’re a genius, Jolene.”
I open my notebook and uncap my ink. I may be trapped in a bargain I never would have made were I in my right mind, but there’s no going back. Our bet is magically binding. All I can do is try my best to beat William. Which means I need to brainstorm clever ways to win over a lover.
I dip my pen nib into my ink and write a heading on a fresh page in my notebook: How to Seduce a Stranger: A Research Guide.